


I'd Never Hurt You

by rennergetica



Category: 28 Weeks Later (2007), Jeremy Renner - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Doyle has hawkeye's skillz, Doyle is friendzoned, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, So very NSFW, but at least he's alive, god help him, surviving the second outbreak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-12 06:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16867840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rennergetica/pseuds/rennergetica
Summary: Doyle gets separated from Levy and the kids after the poison gas, and finds himself indebted to a quiet lady with haunted, dark brown eyes. Doyle's POV. I really hated that Doyle died so horribly in 28 Weeks Later, especially since push starting the car would have never really worked in those circumstances. So here's my bit of an AU where Doyle gets to live.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story goes AU right about the time that Doyle got burned to a crisp in the film. *sob*
> 
> 28 Days Later was filmed in 2002, and therefore I suppose technically 28 Weeks Later should be based around that time too. I was too lazy to check all the technology and books etc that would have been around at that time, so please forgive me for using references that wouldn't have existed in the time period. There were two in particular that I just had to include, for the giggles. You'll just have to keep reading to find them.  
> Rated E for violence and explicit sexual content.  
> I don't own the characters or plot from the 28 Days/Weeks series, or any of the characters/books mentioned within this fiction. And I'm not earning any money from it. Le Sigh.

**Chapter One - Routine**

Doyle walked into the green zone complex, ready to start his morning's shift. As he passed through security one of the soldiers greeted him, asked if his big weapon was ready to protect them from the monstrous hoards. The guy laughed, and Doyle grinned, not missing a beat.

"My weapon is always ready," he replied. "Or at least that's what your mom told me last night."

The other soldier laughed good naturedly as Doyle went on his way. He saw a dark haired woman walk past him, a hiking pack on her back. He was sure he'd seen her carrying that before, and he had no idea where she'd got it. The green zone supermarket didn't have anything like it.

She caught his eye, her brown-eyed gaze so haunted that it made him swallow hard. It was wearing, standing watch for hours over a warzone that wasn't a warzone, being tense and full of nervous energy with no way to let it out. He'd seen some shit in his life, but nothing like the briefings that they'd been given at the start of this tour. Sometimes it was easy to forget that some of these people had survived being chased down by the rabid remains of their own fucking family.

The woman glanced at his uniform and his rifle, and looked away again. Her face had taken on an expression of disgust that he couldn't entirely blame her for, and his jaw tightened as she rounded a corner and disappeared from his sight.

Doyle's next few shifts were night watch, and as he stood up on his rooftop scanning the windows through his gun sight he chuckled as he saw a couple fucking on a bed, lights illuminating everything for all to see. The woman was on top, breasts heaving as she rode the man beneath her, and she turned her face to stare straight out the window.

He looked away, laughed softly as he realised the lady knew she was probably being watched.  _Well, whatever gets you off,_ he thought to himself as he moved on to the next window. He saw people sleeping, arguing, hugging, crying. Nothing eventful, until his eye caught the familiar backpack that he'd seen that woman carrying a few days earlier.

She sat on her bed, with a load of supplies spread out in front of her. He saw binoculars, cans of food, bottled water, medical supplies, torches, about a million different types of batteries, some warm clothes, a couple of knives and a fucking  _machete_ , amongst other things. She packed the bag efficiently, and set it down to the side of her bed so that it would be within reach whilst she slept. For a moment she disappeared into the bathroom, and then climbed onto the bed, fully clothed, making sure that she faced the door.

 _Fuck._  It was a fucking go-bag. He wasn't sure if this was just some kind of PTSD-related habit, or if she truly believed that the infected were going to break down her door at any moment. Either way, it was fucking morbid. He had to admit though, she looked like she knew how to pack a good bag.

He saw her out and about a few times over his day shifts. At first he wasn't sure what she was up to, until he realised that she was finding places where she could spot the snipers positioned on the rooftops. She was walking the perimeter, making a mental note of the soldiers' stations. She stayed out of sight as much as possible, but she wasn't military and Doyle had a sniper's eye.

He should have reported it, but he didn't. She never did anything dangerous, so he figured maybe he should just watch her and wait to find out more. Right now she'd done nothing wrong, anyway. Even without any training, she was quiet and quick, always alert, and Doyle was starting to gain an understanding of how she'd survived the outbreak.


	2. Everything's Fucked

**Chapter Two - Everything's Fucked**

Emily walked the streets of District One, looking out for weak spots in the coverage from the snipers above. The US Army insisted they were there to protect them, but that was bollocks. A dozen heavily armed soldiers on the rooftops with their rifles pointed inwards? That was containment, not fucking protection. And with the way they laughed and joked around, the distinction didn't seem to bother the soldiers one bit.

Weak spots were not easy to find in the overwatch of District One though, and Emily sighed. Time to look for an alternative plan.

When the shit hit the fan, Doyle was on the rooftop, half way through his night watch. As the stream of panicked British civilians fled from the compromised containment areas, Doyle did his best to target the Infected before they could get to anyone else. But as the crowd became more terrified, and more Infected came at them, it was hard to know who was a rabid biter and who was just scared to death. He hesitated, had no valid shots that he could guarantee wouldn't be an innocent.

When the order came over the radio, he had to ask for it to be repeated. Abandon selective targeting and kill everyone on ground level.  _Fuck._  He searched his sights, trying to pick off people who were already cornered, but it was too chaotic to tell. His next shot was dubious, a guy covered in blood but when Doyle's finger tightened on the trigger he  _knew_  that the guy was screaming and not snarling. Too late.

" _Run!_ " he hissed under his breath as he continued shooting, bringing down another three people that he knew weren't infected but were at the back of the pack. They weren't fast enough and in another second they would have been bitten. Then he saw a fucking kid in his sights, standing bewildered in the middle of the chaos. Someone shouted to the kid, told him to run into a building, and Doyle let his finger loosen on his trigger.

"I got two fuckers on me! Doyle, I got two fuckers on me!" the panicked voice came over the radio and Doyle spun to find two infected tackling one of the guys on the adjacent rooftop. He sighted, saw the teeth break the skin on the soldier's neck before he could shoot, and Doyle took a deep breath and put a bullet in his brother's skull. He hung his head, raked a trembling hand through his hair, and swore as he put down his M1A, slung his pack onto his back and grabbed his M4.


	3. Messy and Screaming

**Chapter Three - Messy and Screaming**

He did everything he could to help Levy and the kids. When he told them to get to the stadium and that he'd meet them there, they all knew that he was lying. He got out of the car, into the burning smoke of the poisonous gas, and started to push, feeling the heat of the approaching flamethrowers at his back. The car started to move, so fucking slowly, and he shouted to Levy to pop the clutch. It shouldn't have worked, but it was their only shot. As the engine finally sputtered into life, he shouted at them to go, and felt the searing flames lick at the back of his neck.

The car disappeared into the smoke, and Doyle did his best to black the fuck out. But a cold, bare hand grabbed his and yanked him to the left, down a side street and into the darkness. She told him to run and he obeyed, following the dark hair as it whipped around behind her head. He was hyperventilating, had been sure he was going to die messy and screaming, and the blistering agony at the back of his neck told him that he hadn't just been fucking hallucinating.

They ran and they ran, the woman not stopping to check he was keeping up as they rounded corner after corner and disappeared out of sight of the advancing soldiers. Doyle had no idea where they were, but she seemed to know was she was doing, and all he could do was trust in that. They heard the hissing and gurgling sounds of an infected ahead of them and she stopped in her tracks. Doyle's hands went immediately to his M4, but she shoved him back.

The monster saw them, head twitching to the side in some kind of fucked up leer, and started running straight at them. The woman stood her ground, unsheathed her machete from the side of her pack and stepped forward. She pivoted, sank the weapon into the monster's gut, turning aside to protect her face from the spray of infected blood and the gnashing of teeth. The infected lost balance and fell back, still thrashing, and the woman pulled the machete free and battered it into the creature's skull until it stopped moving. The night descending into silence again, and she stepped back, holding her weapon clear of her body as it dripped with infected blood.

"Guns are loud," she muttered towards him as she tore a piece of rag out of her pack, wiped down her machete and threw the fabric aside. She checked her hands and arms to make sure they were clean of blood, then adjusted the pack on her back.

"Good luck," she said over her shoulder, turning to leave.

"Wait up!" Doyle called, hurrying to catch up as she turned another winding corner. "We should stick together. It's safer."

She stopped walking and turned towards him, raised her machete and pointed it at his chest. "Back off," she warned, and Doyle raised his hands in surrender. "I don't take in strays."

"Look," he said, trying to keep his voice level as he saw the woman contemplate whether she could slit his throat faster than he could raise his weapon. "Look, who knows how many of us are left?"

"Fewer than there would have been if you hadn't started shooting anything that moved," she replied, and Doyle winced at the hard truth. "Shouldn't you still be up there? Or maybe one of the ones holding the flamethrower?"

"We were trying to contain it," Doyle said. Knew it sounded pathetic. "What else could we have done?"

"You keep telling yourself that, soldier," the woman said, her eyes as hard as he'd ever seen them. "Just do it somewhere else, please, because I don't care."

"You saved my life," Doyle said, not giving up. "You could have been burned alive with me. Fuck, I have no idea how we  _weren't_. Why would you do that if you don't even fucking care? If you're just gonna fucking leave me here?"

"Come on, big brave soldier," she said, her voice full of malice as she mocked him. To his American ear, the British accent made her words sound even colder. "You've got your big gun, and all your professional training. And balls that were apparently big enough to joke about the infected when it was all still just a game to you." Doyle looked away at that, ashamed.

"You don't need me," she went on. "And I don't need you. So just leave me the hell alone." And with that, she walked around another corner, and out of his sight.


	4. So We're A "We", Now?

**Chapter Four - So We're A "We", Now?**

He knew that she didn't need him, but Jesus, after everything that had happened, he didn't want to be alone. He followed behind her, always just out of sight, safe in the knowledge that she didn't have a gun to use to down him at a distance. She must know he was there; she didn't survive this long by being sloppy, but she acted as if she hadn't noticed. Maybe he just wasn't worth any of her attention.

She had circled north, heading away from the populated green zone as quickly as possible. It was a good plan; they hadn't come across anyone for hours, and they made good progress as they jogged through the deserted streets.

Just as Doyle was starting to wonder if they were safe, he heard a soft snarl ahead and to their right. She stopped, motionless, as they saw a pack of wild dogs, four of them, growling at them hungrily. Doyle ducked behind an abandoned car, and she started to run to another one nearby when another dog walked out from behind it. There was no other cover that she'd get to before the dog would be on her. She stood still, proud, but there was a tremble in her hands that told him she didn't have a way out.

Silently, he raised his weapon, sighting on the head of the dog that was closest to her. Guns were loud, but he had no other choice. He broke cover and ran towards the woman, picked off two of the animals before the rest started to run at her. She whipped out her machete and bent her knees, bracing for the impact of the dog racing towards her. It pounced and she threw herself backwards, swinging the weapon so that it sliced into the animal's exposed jugular. She rolled out of the way a split second before the dog hit the ground, motionless.

Doyle downed the fourth dog before he ran out of ammo, the gun cycling empty with a metallic  _click_. The final animal turned on him, and as it ran for him, teeth bared, he had no time to do anything except smack it in the muzzle with the butt of his empty weapon. The dog whimpered, fell to the ground, then scrambled back onto its paws. It leapt at him again, and this time Doyle wasn't fast enough to hit it before it jumped on him. They fell to the ground, its teeth snapped at his neck and he had to grab it by the jaw, the muscles of his arms screaming as he fought to throw the dog off.

It lunged at his throat despite his grip on its teeth, and Doyle jerked his head back, shouting in agony as he felt his burned skin grind into tarmac and gravel. He threw the dog to the side and rolled, trying to get on top of it to use his weight to his advantage. The dog was too strong, and it scrambled its way back on top.

The woman appeared at his side, a pocket knife unsheathed in her hand. She straddled the dog, grabbed its head and forced the knife into the animal's eye socket. Suddenly the strength was gone from the gnashing jaws at Doyle's throat, and the dog collapsed onto his chest, blood oozing from the ruined eye. He shoved it off and looked up to see the woman standing over him, her feet planted on either side of his hips.

"Thanks," Doyle whispered as he fought to regain his breath.

"Yes," she replied, staring grimly as she pulled her knife free of the dead dog. "You too."

"No problem."

She stepped back and reached out her hand and he took it, allowing her to help pull him to his feet. He ejected the empty magazine from his M4 and reached into his gear for a fresh one.

"Think they were infected?" he asked, and she shook her head. She looked sad, almost ashamed as she stared at the bleeding bodies.

"Just hungry." She paused for a moment. "We should get moving before whatever heard the shots comes to visit." Doyle nodded as he finished loading and checking his weapon.

_So we're a 'we' now?_ he thought to himself, but when he opened his mouth, it was only to agree. "Let's go."

They walked until it was light, and then they walked some more. She was searching for something specific as she looked at the rows of deserted houses.

"So," Doyle said as they walked, if only to break the silence that had lasted the past three hours. "You have a name?"

She glanced sideways at him in a way that made him feel like he was less than dogshit. "Yes," she replied. "I do."

He sighed, came to a stop and sat down on a low brick wall. His neck was fucking killing him, and he was starting to feel lightheaded. He half expected her to keep walking, but she turned to look at him, raising her eyebrow and sighing as you would to a petulant child. "Look," he said. "You don't like me. I get it. But if we're gonna try and make this work, we need to fucking communicate. I'm only asking for a name so I know what to call you. You can make it up for all I'd know."

She stared for a moment, her eyes flicking to the three chevrons on his uniform insignia. "What does that make you," she asked. "A sergeant?"

"Yeah," he confirmed, smiling ruefully as she deflected his request. "Sergeant Doyle, ma'am. And you are?"

She turned her back and resumed walking, and Doyle shook his head as he stood and ran to catch up.

Once they were side by side, she eventually replied.

"Emily."


	5. I'd Never Hurt You

**Chapter Five - I'd Never Hurt You**

Finally they reached a house that satisfied Emily, and they cautiously approached. Doyle did a sweep of the property to ensure it was empty. It was a new build, so the windows and doors were uPVC and double glazed. Good for keeping out unwanted visitors. He checked that all of the windows were locked, checked and planned an escape route in case the front door was ever blocked, and closed all of the heavy curtains to keep their activity away from prying eyes.

Emily busied herself by setting out led candles, clearing the six month old rotten food from the kitchen and scrubbing the surfaces clean with bleach. When Doyle was finally satisfied with their security arrangements, he came back to find her rooting through the pantry.

"I found these," she said, holding up a half empty bottle of vodka and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Before Doyle could react, she explained. "We should clean up that burn before it gets any worse. You don't want to survive the Infected only to die of blood poisoning."

He smiled grimly. He knew she was right, but his neck was already on fire and he didn't want to imagine what it would feel like with vodka poured over it. But she led him to the sofa and told him to sit, and he obeyed because he was a soldier and that's what he did. She dug out two glasses and poured, his significantly more full than hers, and handed it over.

"Cheers," she said softly, knocking his glass, and he repeated the word before downing his whisky. It burned as it went down, his throat raw from the gas and the fire and the terror of the last 12 hours. But it warmed his stomach and softened the sharp edges of his perception, and he let Emily pour him another. Once that was gone, she helped him take off his vest, loosen the neck of his shirt, then lie on his stomach with his head dangling down over the edge of the sofa. She scrubbed her hands with soap and then bleach, using some of the precious water from one of the bottles in her pack.

Doyle was almost dozing as he felt Emily kneel beside him. She laid out the vodka, some nonstick burn dressing, some tape and tweezers. "This is going to hurt," she admitted, and he murmured in assent. The vodka was napalm as she washed it over his injured neck, and he gasped a little at the fierceness of the pain. He gripped the edge of the sofa and held tight whilst Emily cleaned and inspected his skin, pulling bits of gravel free with the tweezers. She was quick, but thorough, and he was trembling by the time she gently taped the dressing into place. If she felt him, she didn't mention it.

Emily got up to put away the supplies, and told him to sit still as she rooted through the cupboards of the house for any food that was not so far out of date that it might kill them. She wanted to save the food in her pack for emergencies, and that made sense. Doyle wanted to make himself useful, and tried to get up, but the world spun on its axis and he collapsed onto his ass. His bandaged neck brushed against the back of the sofa, pulsed and screamed, and he hissed in agony.

"I told you to stay put," Emily chided as she rushed back to catch him before he slid to the floor.

"I just wanna do something fucking useful," Doyle replied, and she smiled grimly as she sat down next to him on the sofa and slid her fingers against his jaw. She was gentle and soft against his stubble as she pulled his face until he looked her in the eye.

"That burn might not be big, but it's deep," she whispered. "Really deep, and you just went and ground all of the filth of London into it. We need to be careful until it starts to heal. No more playing twister with stray dogs, and no more ignoring anything that's a potentially life threatening injury. Understood?"

"Come on, Em-"

"I mean it," she interrupted, brooking no argument. "In the morning I'm going to find you some broad spectrum antibiotics and some morphine, if I can. There was a chemist a couple of streets back, didn't look like it had been disturbed by looters. Fingers crossed it will have something decent that isn't expired. Can you hold out until then?"

"Yes ma'am."

They ate, some kind of chunky soup that was tastier than he'd expected once Emily dug out some salt and black pepper. She let him keep drinking the Jack; he was already too drunk to be any use for keeping watch anyway. Soon it was dark, and they turned out the candles downstairs and carried a couple into the bedroom along with Emily's pack, and Doyle's gear and M4.

She wouldn't let him sleep in a different room; she needed to know where he was so that she could identify any unusual sounds immediately. He'd offered to sleep on the floor, he didn't want her to think that he was the kind of guy that would try to take advantage, but she just snorted in derision as she helped him strip off his boots. She kicked off her own shoes and lay down on the bed facing the door, still fully clothed, just as she'd done back in her apartment in District One.

Doyle lay down beside her, leaving a respectful distance between their bodies and wishing that his mind would stop replaying the feeling of her soft fingers against his skin.

"I'll change your dressing in the morning and then I'll go looking for that chemist," Emily said, her voice softening with sleep. "Okay?"

"Yes ma'am," Doyle replied, wondering why it felt like Emily was somehow his commanding officer.

By the time he woke it was already light, and Doyle could hear birds tweeting their morning conversations outside. He opened his eyes to find the bed empty beside him, and Emily's pack gone. He jerked upright, and regretted it as the pounding agony of a hangover settled between his eyes. He swung his legs to the floor and felt the word tilt sickeningly.

"Fuck!" he muttered to himself, shoving his feet into his boots. Had she gotten him drunk so that she could ditch him? He grabbed his vest and his weapon and headed downstairs, determined to go out to look for his frosty companion.

Emily sat at the kitchen table, munching on what looked to be dry cereal. She looked up as she heard him stumble down the stairs, smirking at his unsteady movements. She motioned to the small boxes that sat on the table in front of her.

"Amoxicillin and fentanyl," she explained as Doyle sat down at the table next to her. So she'd snuck out and gone to the chemist without him. He was mad, but he shoved the emotion back down. It wasn't like he didn't already know that she could handle herself. And she'd come back for him, at least.

He took the meds that she handed him, and then nibbled at some of the cereal. It was some kind of British brand that he didn't recognise, but it tasted pretty good. After the fentanyl started to kick in, he felt his limbs float as his body became warm and tingly, and he moaned in relief as the pain in his head and his neck melted away.

"Fuck me, that's good," he whispered, too relaxed to care about the goofy smile on his face. He heard Emily chuckle and he couldn't help joining in.

Doyle didn't remember too much of the rest of that day. He remembered lying face down with Emily's hands on his neck again, but the fentanyl dampened pain was far easier to withstand this time as she changed the dressing. He remembered her telling him to eat and thrusting some kind of pasta under his nose. He didn't remember the taste but he did remember that his stomach felt fuller.

He didn't know how many days passed like this, with Emily feeding him and checking his wound and helping him to the fucking toilet. But he remembered very fucking clearly indeed the morning that she gave him only his antibiotic, and not the fentanyl.

"We need to save it," she had said. "And besides, it's addictive. You're definitely no good to me strung out."

The pain still raged, but Doyle told Emily that he was fine. He felt his body crave the opioid, desperate to sneak into the supplies and take the fucking  _lot_ , and he realised that she was right. After a couple more days, she decided it was time and he was ready for them to move on. They packed their things away, adding some of the extra food from the pantry, and locked up the house, leaving the key under a plant pot.

They walked, Doyle holding his M4 and Emily gripping her machete, continuing out of London until they finally reached Cambridge. They found a small house and settled in for the night, falling into a routine of Doyle checking windows and escape routes, and Emily sanitising the kitchen and finding them some canned delights for dinner.

She checked his dressing, and was finally happy with the progress his body had made with starting to heal. They slept as they usually did, packs and weapons by their sides, facing the door, and Doyle leaving a respectful distance between their bodies.

At some point during the night, Emily rolled over so that she was facing Doyle, snuggled into his body heat, and he threw an arm over her and squeezed reassuringly. She slept soundly, far later into the morning than usual, and Doyle lay still, listening to the birds and her breathing as he secretly enjoyed his stolen moment of human contact.

Emily woke slowly, a look of confusion on her face as she realised that she was snuggled into his chest. "Hey," he murmured, loosening his grip on her waist so that she could wriggle free.

"Hello," she replied stiffly, swinging her legs to the floor as she sat up on the bed.

"Think it must have gotten pretty cold last night," Doyle said, trying to explain why he'd been touching her. She was the one who'd initiated their contact, but he figured she wouldn't be open to hearing that right now.

"Right," she said, shoving her feet into her shoes.

His stomach clenched as he realised what she was thinking. "Emily. I didn't… I mean… Nothing happened. I didn't do anything. You know that, right?"

She stood up, turned to look at him, and her voice softened a little.

"Of course."

He got up, grabbed his gear and came around the bed to stand in front of her. His heart was hammering in his chest as he leaned his gun against the wall and then stepped closer to her. He slipped his fingers against her chin and lifted her face to meet his eyes, like she'd done with him. "Em, I'd never hurt you. Not for fucking anything."

His eyes were stinging, and he wanted to look away, but he needed to know that she believed him. Emily's mouth twitched into the tiniest hint of a smile, and she reached up and slid her hand into his hair. She pulled his head down until his cheek was nuzzled against hers.

"I know," she whispered, stroking his hair until his erratic breathing returned to normal. "I know."


	6. Lakenheath

**Chapter Six - Lakenheath**

They spent a couple of nights at each place they visited before moving on. They see some cats, a few more dogs, but nothing they can't avoid or handle quietly. No humans, and no Infected. Emily's plan is still to head north, as far from the green zone as possible. Doyle suggests that they stick a little closer to the coast as they move, and she's okay with that. If anyone is doing flyovers from Europe, he wants to know about it. He'd held onto his radio, trying the frequency he'd been using with Flynn a few times, and then every frequency he could think of, but there was no response. He hoped it was only because he was out of range, but that didn't feel right in his gut.

They reached RAF Lakenheath, and Emily wanted to give it a wide berth, but Doyle was itching to check for any ammo he could use for his M4. They lurked for ages, watching for any movement, but everything seemed clear. Eventually they moved inside, stopping to raid the hospital, commissary and the armoury for supplies.

"What's that?" Doyle asked as he stared at the expanse of greenery in the distance.

"I believe," Emily started as she squinted in the sunlight. "That's Thetford Forest Park. They have a Center Parcs near there, it's a little bit east of here if you fancy some hideously overpriced outdoor activities."

"Like what, mountain biking and shit?"

"Mountain biking, paintball, geocaching, that kind of thing. Probably out of the price range of an Army Sergeant and a refugee."

He smiled. "Think they had archery there?"

"I'd expect so. Why?"

"Forest like that," Doyle mused. "Bet they have deer."

"Yes, it did. I guess they might have still survived. Do you even know how to _use_  a bow?"

Doyle looked at Emily, and saw the expression of doubt on her face. "What?" he said. "You think all I can do is shoot a gun? I suppose it's been a while, but I was pretty good."

"And you want to go hunting deer with a bow and arrow?"

"Guns are loud," he replied with a smile, echoing one of the first sentences she ever said to him.

"I…" she said, her face darkening into a frown. "I don't think I could eat a deer."

Doyle leaned against the wall of the commissary, thinking about the cans of old meat that they'd managed to salvage from the cupboards. "So, what? You'd prefer to keep getting our protein from lumps of grey, sweaty, canned rubber?"

She punched him in the chest, but without any real attempt to hurt him. "You told me that you liked my cooking, you dickhead!"

He grinned. "Course I do. It's just it would be nice to be able to eat something fresh for once, don't you think? And it will help us conserve our supplies."

Emily didn't answer for a while. She looked at the ground, kicked at a pebble near her foot. "Promise me you won't shoot one that has babies with them."

"Course I won't," he assured her. "No re-enactments of Bambi, I swear."

"And I have no idea what to do with a dead deer."

"That's okay, I can handle it."

"Fine," she said, begrudgingly. Then, under her breath she muttered "you filthy, dirty American."

The words had no malice behind them, and Doyle laughed as they set off towards the Center Parcs. They found a farmhouse not too far from the forest entrance, and Emily started their settling in routine.

"Still a couple hours of light left," Doyle said. "I'm gonna go see if I can find a bow. You okay here?"

Emily wasn't happy with him going alone, but didn't try to stop him. He had his M4, and he was finally happy now that he'd been able to restock his ammo. Before he left, he lifted his USP from his thigh holster and held it out to her. She wrinkled her nose, but she took it.

"You ever used a gun before?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"Only in games, but I think I know what I'm doing." She pointed the gun at the ground, thumbed the safety off and chambered a round. Satisfied, she pulled the safety all the way down to engage the de-cock feature, put the safety back on, and rested the gun on the table. "That okay?"

Doyle let out a chuckle of surprise, and ran his hand through his hair. "Okay," he agreed. "That's not half bad."

"Probably couldn't guarantee I could hit anything," she admitted, and his chuckle returned.

"You're not gonna need to," he reassured her. "But if you need me, go outside and fire a round into the air. I'll hear it. That okay?"

"I guess."

"I'll get the bow and come straight back, then tomorrow I'll head out and bag us a deer. After that, why don't I show you how to fire the gun? Just in case."

"Okay," she agreed, and he started to turn to leave. "Don't you dare die," she added, and he smiled as he slid his hand to the back of her neck and pulled her in for a quick hug.

"Never," he promised as she slid her hands under the edge of his vest and held on tight.


	7. Hawkeye

**Chapter Seven - Hawkeye**

The bow wasn't built for distance or accuracy, but Doyle had taken a few practice shots before he'd set off, and he figured he could make it work. At least if he missed, he wouldn't be alerting the residents of the entire area to his whereabouts.

The air was cool, crisp and fresh, and the forest floor was soft beneath his feet. Doyle kept his steps light, not disturbing fallen twigs as he scouted the area a couple of miles in from the edge of the treeline. He heard birds tweeting and small animals scurrying, and it calmed his heart. He could almost pretend that the world hadn't just gone to shit for the second time within a year.

He sat down on a fallen log, fished his water out of his pack and took a swig. He sat motionless, eyes closed, just listening to the sounds around him until he heard a louder rustle. He followed the sound, hiding behind the massive trunk of a pine. He checked that he was downwind, and peeked into the clearing ahead.

Bingo. About a dozen deer stood in the clearing, chewing on the grass and lapping at some water from a tiny stream. Doyle slid an arrow out of his quiver and notched it quietly, held the bow relaxed in front of him as he scanned the herd to work out his most sensible target.

There was a buck at the edge of the clearing, not too big that Doyle wouldn't be able to get it back to the farmhouse. And there'd definitely be no Bambi issues if he could bring that one down. Slowly, he raised his bow, half drawing back the string and aiming for the animal's head. He breathed slowly, patiently waiting for the deer to turn his head to the side.

The animal moved into position, and Doyle drew back fully, and released the arrow. His practice shots had paid off; the rest of the heard took off in fright as they heard the thud of their comrade's body fall to the ground. He waited for a moment, checking for certain that the animal was dead, and then he slid his bow onto his back, satisfied.

"Sorry, buddy," he murmured as he crouched down by the dead deer, stroking his hand over the white spotted tawny fur. "Hope you had a good run." He cut his arrow free and wiped it clean on a patch of grass, then placed it back in the quiver. Then he scooped his hands under the buck's body, and hefted it onto his shoulder. It would have been easier to carry around his neck, but his burn was still too sensitive for that.

It took him about an hour to pick his way back through the forest and out towards the farmhouse. He placed the animal at his feet, and then knocked on the door gently, hoping that Emily wasn't too trigger happy with the gun.

"Emily," he called as he heard a rustle behind the door. "It's me."

He heard her jiggle with the locks and move the barricade aside, and then the door swung open to reveal Emily's pale face. "Hey," he greeted her, and she stepped forward and threw her arms around his back.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice tight with worry, and Doyle rested his chin on the top of Emily's head and stroked his hands through her hair.

"Yeah," he assured her, squeezing gently as he felt the tremble in her body.

"You were gone  _forever._ "

Doyle looked at his watch, checking, and smiled as he corrected her. "Three hours."

"It was at least a week!"

"Hey," he said, lifting his head and tilting hers back so that she looked at him. "I brought dinner."

He motioned to the ground at his feet and Emily looked down, balking as she saw the dead animal beside her. "Jesus Christ, Doyle!" she exclaimed. "Are we having a dinner party you didn't tell me about?"

He chuckled. "You asked me not to take down any with babies, so I picked a buck. There's a bunch of salt in the store room, so we can salt what we don't eat right away."

Emily stared at the animal grimly, her eyes widening as she saw that the arrow had gone cleanly through the deer's eye socket. "Bloody hell," she said. "Look at  _you_ , showing off."

"I told you I used to be pretty good."

"Alright,  _Hawkeye_ ," she laughed, and he smiled sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders.

"It's no big deal."

Emily had busied herself chopping some wood whilst Doyle had been away, and she lit the wood burning kitchen stove as he went to work skinning and butchering the buck. He hung the skin to dry, figuring it might come in useful, and then started to haul the meat into the kitchen. He set aside enough for them to eat over the next couple of days, and spread the rest out, covering it in salt and some seasonings that Emily dug out from the cupboards. He'd asked if she thought they would still be okay to use, and she laughed.

"This is Britain," she said. "Most of the herbs in people's kitchens are from the seventies."

The farmhouse had a water spring and the pump still worked, so he set some water to heat on the stove. Doyle cleaned the blood and gore from his hands and arms, and scrubbed at his nails before he fetched more water and put it back on the heat. "You need some?" he asked, looking at Emily over his shoulder. She shook her head.

"I washed while you were out," she replied. She turned around, busy checking their medical supplies, and Doyle tried to stop thinking about Emily stripping off and running the warm water over her bare breasts. "You need me to go?" she asked. "I can do this upstairs."

He felt himself blush like a little boy who'd been caught red-handed, and he was glad that she wasn't looking at him. "'Kay," he replied, biting his lip until he heard her disappear out of the room.

After he'd washed Doyle double checked the security of the doors and windows in case any animals tried to break in and steal their dinner overnight. Emily had returned from upstairs, and as he looked over he saw that she was staring at the deer steaks, looking a little green.

"Want me to deal with this?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"It's okay," she whispered, walking over to the kitchen counter where he stood. She searched through the cupboards and found an unopened bottle of cooking oil. Butter would have been better, but that would have been rancid months ago. She sprinkled some of the oil onto each side of the steaks, rubbed in some salt and pepper, and massaged the meat. She heated a frying pan on the stove, and placed the steaks onto the sizzling surface before scrubbing her hands clean.

They ate their steaks with some ancient canned potatoes and carrots, curled up together on the sofa in front of the stove, and it was the single greatest meal that Doyle had ever tasted in his life.


	8. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapters, but it felt right to keep this angsty stuff separate. I will try my best to provide meatier chapters soon!

“Why did you want to be alone?”   
They were still snuggled on the sofa in the dim glow of a couple of the led candles that Emily had been so good at hoarding. Their bellies were full of deer and they were slowly emptying a bottle of Kraken that Doyle had found hidden at the back of the pantry. He didn’t go into detail with his question, but he knew that Emily understood what he was asking.  
She sighed, and he felt her body stiffen in discomfort. She started to lean away from him, and Doyle felt the sting of rejection that seemed to come so frequently with Emily. Her weight shifted some more, and she slid her legs off the sofa to plant her feet on the floor.  
“Em,” he whispered, and she stopped moving. She bowed her head for a moment, and took a couple of deep breaths before she replied. Her words were strained and rushed and full of venom.  
“Because people are unreliable. Because they get you killed, or they die, or they run away, or they push old people and children into the path of the infected to give themselves a better chance of saving their own skins and I don’t want to see that shit ever again.”  
Fuck. Doyle knew that the residents of District One had seen some shit, but it was moments like this that made it really hit home that he didn’t – and couldn’t – have a fucking clue. Her shoulders were shaking and he realised that she was crying.   
Emily started to get up, and Doyle pulled her back into his arms and held on tight. She fought to break free, smacking and scratching her hands against him as she whimpered at him to let her go. He held tighter, slid his hand into the hair at the back of her neck and pulled her ear to his chest so that she could hear his heart. She sobbed, tears soaking into his shirt as she ran out of strength and stilled against him.  
There was nothing that he could say to make things better. Nothing that could possibly take away her pain. Doyle had seen friends haunted by the things they’d seen in combat, and there were never any words that could fucking help. He had been messed up before he’d even arrived in Britain, and now he was followed by the faces of those terrified people he’d shot as they ran for their lives from the containment areas.  
All he could do was hold onto her and let her cry, so that’s what he did.


	9. Friend Zoned

Doyle knew he wasn't a classically handsome man, but he'd usually done alright when it came to getting attention from women. Granted, though, they tended to be the same type of woman, and that type was definitely not Emily.

He'd known, if he was honest with himself, that he hadn't reported her little recon trips back at District One because he liked to watch her. She was quiet, but obviously capable, and he'd realised from the sharp, intelligent look in her eye that he'd never have a fucking chance. Not even if she hadn't glared at him that time as if he was worse than shit.

Maybe that was what had kept him coming back initially, knowing that she was hopelessly fucking beyond him. He kept staring, at her dark, flowing hair, those glorious fucking tits that were just a little larger than you'd expect for her frame, and her long limbs that were toned from hours of creeping, walking and running through the confines of the Green Zone.

She'd taken off her shirt in her bedroom one night, and as she swapped her long sleeves for a tank top he was surprised to see a smattering of tattoos covering her arms and shoulders. He couldn't make out colour through the night scope, but the designs were obviously well done. Much better than the alcohol-induced, clichéd shit he'd inflicted upon himself.

He still furtively drank in the sight of her now, any chance he could get. He'd watch her cleaning dishes, chopping wood, even when she was just lying down and not doing much of anything at all. Half the time they were both sweaty, filthy, with hair as greasy as fuck, and he didn't even give a shit. He'd lick the sweat out of the crack of her ass if she'd let him, and he'd love every fucking minute of it.

But no. She was either totally fucking oblivious to him, or completely disinterested, and considering how smart Doyle knew her to be, it seemed pretty obvious that it was the latter.

They stayed at the farmhouse until they had finished the fresh meat and the rest was well salted. Doyle found some waxed paper and wrapped the deer carefully, and packed it away as they get ready to move on. He was a little sad to be leaving the forest, but Emily was itching to be on the move.

He kept his M4 at his back now and an arrow notched in the string of the bow in his hands as they walked. Emily has his USP in the back of her pants despite his warnings that it was unsafe, insisting that she was only going to carry it until she was sure his arrow to the deer's eye wasn't just a fluke. She refused to wear his thigh holster, as if that would somehow signify that she wasn't just carrying the weapon temporarily.

She hadn't been a natural while he was teaching her to shoot, but she was tenacious and determined, and despite his almost acceptance of being friend zoned Doyle had no problem with staying close and holding his arms around her to correct her stance. By the time they were finished she wasn't going to win any awards for marksmanship, but she could get the job done. He had a chuckle over her half serious complaints that real guns don't come with aim assist enabled.

Doyle didn't make the mistake of wishing away the uneventful days anymore like he and the rest of Delta had done on the rooftops. He still stole glances at Emily as she busied herself at the kitchen table of their latest home for the night, watching her elegant fingers as she sorted and repacked the first aid kit. She'd braided her dark hair down her back, but strands of it had come loose and fallen onto her face, and she absently swiped them behind her ear.

She winced as she raised her arms above her head and rolled her shoulders. She was trying to stretch out her back, but her breasts lifted and jiggled at the same time, and Doyle had to look away as he felt his cock stiffening in his pants.

"We should keep an eye out for more surgical tape," Emily said, and Doyle replied with an 'uh huh' as he finished securing the windows of the house. She glanced up to look at him as he sat down at the table opposite her. Her skin was still pale, but the sun had brought out a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks that softened the pensive expression she so often had on her face.

"Need any help?" Doyle asked, and Emily shook her head.

"I'm just about finished anyway. You ready for dinner?"

"Mmmm," he replied, picking up an old pizza shop leaflet from the table in front of him. "Let's order in. I could kill for a pizza."

"Ooh, yeah. Pepperoni?"

"Naturally. And maybe a few olives?"

"You're a monster and I hate you."

Doyle smiled. He was really starting to appreciate the deadpan British humour. "Seriously? You don't like olives?"

"They are the solid remains of Satan's dirty old boxers."

"Man, that's a serious dislike of olives you got there."

"We should have pineapple instead."

"On a fucking pizza? Oh no, now you've gone too far."

"So you will eat lumps of Lucifer's dried up ball juice on your pizza, but a chunk of lovely, fruity pineapple is wrong?"

"Absolutely."

Emily smiled this time, and Doyle put the leaflet back on the table. "I think it would be a disaster if we tried to share a pizza."

He nodded sagely. "Divorces have been granted for less," he agreed.

She stood up and went to examine the store cupboard. "Fancy boiled pasta and some hideously bland tinned tomatoes?"

Doyle grinned. "Sounds perfect. Salty deer meat on standby."

They played one of Doyle's favourite games while they ate. "Food," he said, and Emily frowned.

"That is far too wide a category for me to make a decision," she protested.

"Em, you couldn't make a decision if I limited the category to chocolate bars beginning with the letter 'A'."

"Don't be ridiculous. Aero."

"Yeah? Which flavour?"

"I swear you add new rules every time we play this game."

Doyle chuckled. She was right, but watching her lose her cool was too much fun, even if it was only a stupid game. "Okay," he relented. "I'll make it easier for you. Savoury junk food."

Emily was quiet for a minute while she thought. "Doritos."

"Flavour?"

"Lime."

"Dip?"

"Hot salsa."

"Nice. Your turn?"

"Hmm. Gadget."

"And you said food was too wide a category!"

"I'm sure you can handle it."

Doyle smiled as he leaned back into the sofa and thought. "Think it'd have to be the PS4."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean then I could play some games, watch a little Netflix, go online…"

"I don't feel like you're sticking to the spirit of the rules here."

"Hey," he said, holding up his hands. "Not my fault if you didn't define the parameters clearly."

"Okay," she conceded. "You can have the PS4. But you don't have a TV to go with it, so I guess it'll just have to be a noisy foot warmer."

"You got me," Doyle smiled, and Emily held her fingers up in a 'L' as she mouthed the word 'loser' at him, and they finished their meals in companionable silence.


	10. Birthdays and Fifty Shades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to get a little intimate here. Just sayin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note* No offence intended to the author or anyone who enjoys the Fifty Shades series. I used it here as it was useful for a bit of humour before turning a little dark. I don't own the series or earn any money from it.

**Chapter 10 - Birthdays and Fifty Shades**

Their latest morning's walk brought them to a local high street shopping district, and it seemed quiet and still enough that Emily was willing to take the risk and stock up on supplies. Doyle peeked into the window of a shop called "Bargain Booze", grinning at Emily as he saw the rows of undisturbed shelves.

"So we really need surgical tape and water purification tablets," she chided, raising her eyebrow. "But yes, I'm sure you'll find them in the off-license."

He smiled as he laughed off her disapproval. "Come on, we've been sober for how long now? Fucking forever. And besides, it's the seventh. Today's my birthday."

Emily looked about as convinced as she ever did, but she smiled back at him. "Okay," she agreed. "But let's make sure we get something decent."

Doyle had been hoping for some beer, but the smell that came out of the unpowered refrigerators made them retch. So instead they raided the shelves and found some JD and a bottle of amaretto that looked totally intact.

They moved on to a pharmacy and an outdoors store and managed to replace the supplies that Emily had been most concerned about. The last shop on the street was a WH Smith, and buoyed by their previous success, Emily decided to take a look. She raided the puzzle books section while Doyle wandered the aisles and inhaled the new book smell that was still somehow lingering despite the decay of the world outside.

"I would bake you a cake," Emily said as they continued their walk. "But I think the eggs might be a bit off by now."

"That's okay," Doyle replied. "I've always been more of a cookie dough person anyway."

"Do you mean unbaked dough?"

"Yeah. Tollhouse, preferably."

"Oh, do you mean that ready to roll refrigerated stuff?" She looked aghast.

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "You don't like it?"

"And people called the Infected the monsters!"

He laughed at that. "Hey! Don't you dare bitch about the cookie dough. Don't you people eat pickled eggs?"

"I don't!"

"Yeah, yeah, I bet you could kill for a nice dinner of pickled eggs and pork scratchings drizzled in fucking marmite."

"That's disgusting!" Emily giggled.

"Which part? The stinking eggs, the fossilised pork fat or the shit in a jar?"

She glared at him, but a smirk still played at the corner of her lips. "You're lucky you're useful, Sergeant."

"I know," he agreed, and they were quiet for a while as they continued their walk.

Emily dragged herself to her feet, a little unsteady after their celebratory dessert of JD and amaretto. She spotted the plastic bag across the room, and remembered their little detour around WH Smith. "Come on then," she murmured. "Let's see what literary delights you picked out for us, Sergeant Doyle." She rummaged through the books, finding a mix of thrillers, sci-fi and crime fiction. Then a familiar cover caught her eye, and she pulled it free from the pile.

"Fifty Shades of Grey?" she exclaimed, casting a look of despair at the drunken soldier lounging on the sofa. "Seriously, Doyle?"

"Haven't you read it?" Doyle queried, dragging himself upright. He didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. Was he seriously trying to rub it in her face? She sneered at the book, and dropped it back into the bag.

"Seriously," Doyle insisted. "It's fucking hilarious. We used to keep a copy back at District One. The guys would read out quotes from it while we were on watch."

"I'm glad to hear you took your role of protecting the British public so seriously!"

"Ah come on, Em," he placated. "You try staying alert for every minute when you spend three months staring at nothing more than old guys taking a shit on the toilet."

Emily shook her head, full of self-righteous indignation. "You were a bunch of children with big guns. You had our lives in your hands and it was all just a joke to you."

The laughter left his eyes and Doyle's mood turned dark. He swirled the remains of his drink in his glass and downed it. "Yeah," he agreed. "We fucked up and I know it. You know that, Em. Are you ever going to stop throwing it in my face?"

She sighed, her anger draining away and being replaced by guilt. Doyle wasn't responsible for writing the protocols or designing the sub-standard containment areas inside District One. He wasn't the only sniper that has been shooting at them from the darkness. And none of the others had been willing to die to save a couple of kids. So she picked up the book and walked back to the sofa, pausing to refill Doyle's glass before she sat down next to him.

Emily curled her legs up and leaned into him, lifting his free arm so that she could snuggle it around her waist. He didn't stop her, but his body was tense. "I'm sorry," she whispered, nuzzling her face into his shirt. "I'm a self-righteous bitch."

"Yeah you are," he agreed, laughing as she smacked him in the chest with the heel of his hand. "You make a mean fucking Godfather though."

She took a sip of her own drink as she threw the book at Doyle. "Come on then," she said. "Show me what the fuss is about. What helped the poor lonely soldiers through the dark and stormy British nights."

He chuckled. "Honestly, if you're expecting me to read you some smoking hot action, you're missing the point. We were all about the clichés and the fucking terrible metaphors."

"You are kidding?"

"Nope. Here, let me find you one of my favourites."

He searched through the pages, stopping every now and then to giggle like a boy. Finally, he found the quote that he wanted.

"Here we go: 'They dance and weave bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the fireplace in Christian's apartment.' I mean, we must be in the wrong jobs, because this fucker right here can afford flames where the colours are the wrong way around!"

Doyle giggled again, and as much as she knew that it was ridiculous, Emily had to join in. He swiped through the book, finding another portion to share. He puts on the most over the top, mock-female sex voice as he reads.

"'His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something.' So, can she work out what it is? Cause if she can't, what fucking hope do we have?" He flicked through a few more times, reading out bits and pieces that made Emily laugh guiltily. "'My inner goddess sways in a gentle victorious samba.' 'My inner goddess fist pumps the air above her chaise lounge.' 'I must be the colour of the Communist Manifesto.'"

"Doyle!" Emily interrupts him, swatting her hand off his chest again. "Stop it. You're awful!"

"Why?" he asked. "I'm just reading out the words exactly as they were written on the page! Like these ones: 'How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last?'" He skipped to the end of the book before he finished speaking. "Well I'd say… exactly 533 pages."

"You're a terrible person!" Emily exclaimed. "I mean, you know the author probably died in the first outbreak, don't you?"

"I had not considered that," Doyle admitted, but he was still giggling.

"And anyway, she was a Fanfiction writer, not a professional. It's not her fault that it became so popular she released the book and made a shit load of money."

"That is also true. I feel so sorry for her now."

"I knew I was right to hate you!"

"Oh come on Em," Doyle said, rubbing his knuckles through her hair like a brother taunting his little sister. "Why so defensive? You write something similar?"

"Not similar, no." She didn't realise the significance of her words until they'd already escaped her lips.

"So what's the prob- Hold up. So you did write something?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you did though, didn't you?" Doyle sat forward, eyes intent on Emily as his tongue peeked out between his lips and he licked over them. His mouth twitched into a devilish grin.

"I'm not talking about this."

"Come on Em," he coaxed. "You can't come out with that and then just drop the fucking mic. What was it? You gotta let me read it!"

"Absolutely not!" she squeaked. "I'm not letting you tear anything of mine apart like that!" That wasn't the actual reason that she would rather die than let him read it, but Doyle didn't need to know that.

"What else are we gonna do for the rest of eternity?"

"Well I don't exactly keep any hard copies on me, so I'm afraid you're just going to have to wait until our Dropbox connection comes back online. That should happen right about... never."

"So just tell me," he pleaded. "Was it all whips and chains like Fifty Shades?"

"No." The alcohol was loosening her tongue far more than her sober self was going to be happy about. "That's really not my thing."

"Why not?"

Emily slid her feet to the floor and tried to stand up, but Doyle put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her back down next to him. "Come on baby," he whispered, his voice taking on an edge that she'd never heard in him before. Tension crackled through the air between them and Emily had to bite her lip to contain a whimper. She remembered a conversation they'd had only a couple of days into their journey, where he'd promised her that he'd never hurt her. She had believed him then and in her heart she still believed it now. But still…. This was getting out of hand, and her heart was hammering in her chest.

"Talk to me," he whispered, stroking the hair out of her eyes, and Emily gulped down a lump of anxiety in her throat as his calloused fingers danced against her skin.

"It's," she started, her voice wavering as she felt her cheeks burn in embarrassment. "It's too theatrical. And..."

"And?"

"I don't know how to explain it. "All the whips and the chains and the ropes, that sort of shit. It's too distant and impersonal."

Doyle slid his hand to her chin and turned her face until she looked at him. Those bright, expressive eyes were sharp as he hit right on the words that Emily had so carefully avoided.

"You'd rather be held down and forced by someone with their bare hands?" he asked. His voice was like gravel and honey, and Emily felt a shameful rush of arousal dampen her underwear at his words. She couldn't reply, and he stared at her, intense and focused, until she had to look away.

She didn't want this, no matter how wet her pants were. She had a single shred of dignity left in her body, and she wasn't going to give that up for anyone.

"I think we should stop drinking now," she croaked, and stood up. Doyle cleared his throat, and didn't stop her from moving away this time.

"Yes ma'am," he replied, and Emily sighed with relief even as her body screamed in frustration.

For the first time in days, they slept without touching, and Emily shivered without the comforting warmth of Doyle's chest snuggled into her back. She heard him fidget behind her, and they both lay there awkwardly, waiting for the dawn to give them an excuse to get up and get as far away from each other as possible.


	11. Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider yourself warned, this chapter is smut heavy!

They'd moved on from that house more quickly than usual. Doyle had suggested that it might be a good idea to find another place with a wood burning stove, and Emily had agreed a little too quickly, her eyes deliberately avoiding both him, and the sofa where they'd sat and read the night before. He didn't say anything about her skittishness, and in a way he was glad that she wouldn't look at him. It meant that she couldn't see the shame in his eyes.

They moved on, heading North as always and staying within more rural areas in the hope of finding a house with a wood burner. The weather was getting cooler, and alcohol only helped so much when it came to keeping warm. And the more tense Doyle became, the more he realised that drinking was not a good idea.

It was early afternoon when they found a suitable place, and they went about their usual duties getting set up and settled in. Doyle was outside, chopping some wood for the stove when he heard Emily call his name from the front doorway. He looked up, and she gestured over at the road.

Two figures were walking towards their house, backpacks on and hoods up. It was hard to make them out clearly, but Doyle figured a man and a woman. They were walking normally, no evidence of the unnatural, jerky movements of the Infected, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He placed the axe down on the ground and picked up his M4 from its resting place against the wall of the house.

"Go inside," he said, voice terse with the adrenaline pumping through his body. He looked back at Emily to make sure she understood, but she just huffed and stepped out into the garden.

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied. "They're the first people we've seen since the outbreak. Maybe they have news."

"Or maybe they want to fucking kill us and take our gear," he countered, reaching out to hold her back, but Emily shrugged away.

"Do you think they'd have made it this far without gear of their own?"

"That's not the point, Em."

Emily just snorted as she walked through the garden and out onto the road. The two strangers were only about a minute away, and she turned to them and waved. They waved back, and started to jog to come to meet her.

Pete and Anna were brother and sister, or so they said, and Emily had welcomed them into the house as if they were long lost fucking relatives. Doyle hung back, nodding his head in acknowledgement as Emily tried to introduce them, his hand dancing along the trigger of his M4, itching for a reason to use it.

He'd never seen Emily so animated and friendly before - certainly not with him, and it set him on edge. By the time he forced himself to go back into the house, she had sat them down at the table and broken out the packet of only slightly out of date chocolate digestives that she had previously insisted were for the most special of occasions.

Emily was chatting away to Pete, staring up at his stupid fucking puppy dog brown eyes and smiling and insisting he have another fucking biscuit. Anna looked up at Doyle as he entered the room and smiled, licking along her top lip in a way that he would have found sexy if he hadn't already decided that he wanted to kill them. So maybe they really were brother and sister. Or maybe Pete just wasn't Anna's thing and she'd friend-zoned the stiff-upper-lipped bastard in the same way that Emily had done to him. Either way, he didn't like the situation one bit. The entire fucking country was empty, and they just happened to stumble across each others' paths? Nope. No fucking way.

She got up to make dinner, insisting that Pete and Anna stay the night and that they had plenty to share. Doyle finished securing the house and sat himself down on the couch out of the way. Pete decided to 'help' Emily, which apparently consisted of opening cupboards, saying "hmm" a lot, and accidentally bumping into her ass every thirty seconds. And she fucking giggled at all of his awkward shitty jokes.

Doyle tried to look busy, but he couldn't concentrate on anything other than his own anger. Then Anna got up from her seat at the kitchen table and sat herself down next to him, uncomfortably close. Her thigh was pressing against his, and she leaned into him and stroked her fingers along his jaw.

"Hello handsome," she murmured, smiling as she saw him blush. "I remember you from District One. Weren't you one of the sniper team?"

"I was," he admitted, shifting his weight as he felt his cock start to stir. She was young and blonde and flirty, exactly the type that he would have gone for if he'd wanted a night of company back before the shit had hit the fan. Her legs were long and lithe, and she was showing them off in the tightest pair of skinny jeans he'd seen in a long while. They were fucking impractical, but damn they made her ass look good.

"Well aren't I glad that we found you," Anna whispered into his ear. She ran her tongue along the side of his throat, leaving a hot trail of her saliva that she then followed with her lips. Doyle closed his eyes and moaned softly, felt her hand rest on his thigh and stroke dangerously close to his cock. She felt good, really fucking good, and the temptation to pull her into his lap and let her ride him was unreal.

But then suddenly Pete was awkwardly clearing his throat and telling them that dinner was ready, and Doyle's eyes snapped open and he shot forward in his seat to hide his painfully large erection. Anna got up and went back to the table, complimenting them on the meal as if nothing had fucking happened. Emily looked over at him questioningly.

"You coming?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied, knew his voice sounded strained. "In a minute."

She stared at him for another moment until she realised the reason for his hesitation. "Oh. Okay."

She looked away quickly, and Doyle couldn't work out if she was angry or just embarrassed. The last thing he felt like doing was eating, but he sat down at the table surrounded by the artificially bright conversation of embarrassed British people that were too polite to face the elephant in the room. He pushed his food around on his plate until everyone else was done, and prayed that they would all settle for an early night.

—-

Emily woke early and went to prepare some coffee for their stirring visitors. She was relieved to have an excuse to leave the bedroom; things had been painfully strained between her and Doyle since the night of Fifty Shades, and last night just made it even worse.

It shouldn't bother her. She had no claim to Doyle and it was absolutely none of her business if he decided that he liked Anna. But still, she'd felt it like a stab in the heart when she realised that he'd been turned on by the other woman. It was ridiculous, she felt like Emma Thompson when she'd realised that Alan Rickman had bought the necklace for someone other than her. What if Doyle decided that he'd rather be with Anna?

Emily had been so determined to go it alone at first, but now... Now she couldn't imagine carrying on without him beside her. She sighed as she waited for the coffee to brew. The thought of endless days without his easy, practical strength and his earnest eyes and those cute rounded cheeks was harrowing.

If only she had let Doyle scare them off, like he'd wanted.

Pete and Anna made their way downstairs first, lured by the smell of coffee. Emily poured them all a mug full and they sat at the table, mumbling pleasantries until Pete went off in search of the toilet.

"So," Anna said, a sly smile on her lips that made Emily feel uncomfortable. "Are you and Doyle... a thing?"

It seemed perfectly obvious that they were not, but Emily replied as politely as she could. "Oh! Erm, no. No, we aren't like that."

"Oh," Anna said, in badly acted mock surprise. "Well, if that's the case, would you mind if I was to... go wake him up?"

Emily tried her best to suppress her sneer and maintain an even tone of voice. "Of course not. Doyle is a big boy and it's none of my business what he decides to do."

"Fabulous! Well, I'll try to make sure we keep the noise down."

Her superior smile was loathesome as she got up from the table, and as Anna disappeared up the stairs, Emily found herself wishing that the other woman would slip and fall to her death.

A few minutes later Anna stomped back down the stairs, and Emily and Pete glanced at each other awkwardly as she snatched her pack up off the floor. "Come on Pete," she ground out between gritted teeth. "We're leaving."

"Are you alright?" Pete asked. "What happened?"

She glared at Emily, and Emily felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment. "I think we've outstayed our welcome," Anna replied, and Pete pushed back his chair and stood up.

"Right then," he said, looking flustered as he guessed at what had happened during Anna's brief excursion upstairs. "Erm, thank you so much for having us, Emily. Please give our best wishes to Sergeant Doyle."

"No, actually," Anna cut in. "Please don't!" She turned towards the door, and then stopped in her tracks and turned back towards Emily. "Next time you fancy using a stranger to try and tease your tame American up there, I hope it blows up in your bloody face!"

With that, they left, Pete mumbling apologies on his sister's behalf as Anna swore and hissed her way out of the house. Emily locked up behind them, her heart hammering in her chest as she wondered just what the hell had happened upstairs between Doyle and Anna.

She waited a few moments, unsure what to do, until she realized that she could hear Doyle thumping around the bedroom, stuffing things into his go-bag. What the hell was he doing? Leaving? What could have possibly happened to anger him so much?

Emily padded up the stairs as quietly as she could, and stood listening outside the door to their bedroom. He was still shoving things into his bag, his movements careless and aggressive, and entirely out of character compared to the way that he usually handled his gear. She heard him eject the magazine from his M4 and slam it back in with such force that he must have hurt his hand. Doyle never treated his gun with anything other than care and respect.

Her hand trembled as she reached out and pushed the door open. "Doyle?" she asked as she stepped through the doorway. "Are you okay?"

He didn't look at her until he'd finished with his gun and placed it down on the end of the bed. His eyes were dark with fury, the expression on his face suggested that he wanted to kill someone, and Emily felt herself shrink away in alarm.

"I'm just fucking great, Em," he seethed as he turned away from the bed and stepped towards her. "Thanks for asking." His shoulders were tense and his hands were clenching into fists as he regarded her with a look of utter disgust.

"Was…" she started, her voice wavering under the weight of Doyle's fury. She knew the stupidity of her question, but she couldn't think of a single other thing to say. "Was everything ok with Anna?"

He cocked his head to one side as realisation dawned on his face, and his sneer grew deeper. He snorted in derision before he spoke. "She told me that you sent her up here, and the stupid fucker I am, I didn't want to believe her. But you fucking did, didn't you?"

"I-"

"Just fucking shut up, Emily." He stormed back to the bed and finished zipping his pack closed. "You know," he said, a rueful and humourless laugh spilling out as he stalked back towards her. "You don't fucking want me. I get it, I mean you've made that very fucking clear. And I don't push it. But you've still gotta throw that in my fucking face too, haven't you? Every chance you get. You can't just fucking let it go."

"Doyle," Emily pleaded as his eyes blazed into hers. She felt the sting of tears as an overwhelming sense of loss settled into her stomach. "I don't understand what you're saying. Please, don't go. Just talk to me."

"You sent her up here, didn't you?" he demanded. "Just fucking admit it, Emily."

She was quiet for a moment. "Anna wanted to come up here," she said, her voice small. "She asked if we were… together… and I told her we weren't. So she went. And, I mean, it's none of my business who you sleep with, Doyle."

"Did you really think that's what I fucking wanted?"

"I don't know. But like I said, it's not up to me-"

"So, you think… What? I can't have you, so I'll be happy to fuck anything else you throw at me instead?"

"I didn't exactly do any throwing. And you seemed perfectly happy with her attention last night."

"Maybe you thought you could even get rid of me onto them, that it?"

His eyes were agonising as he stared at her, glistening with enough emotion to make his chest heave. The full meaning of his words finally sunk in, and Emily felt her face flush hot with shame. "God, Doyle, no!" she replied, a tear finally running down her reddened cheek. "I… I didn't know. You never said anything."

Doyle's eyes narrowed skeptically. "You didn't fucking know?"

"No! I mean, you were the one campaigning to sleep in separate rooms."

He stepped closer, and she had to tilt her head up to look at him. "You didn't know me, and you had already tried to ditch me once. I didn't want to do anything to make you think I was a fucking asshole."

"But you never even look at me."

"Oh I look at you," he corrected. "I'm just very fucking sneaky."

Emily was silent for a moment as she tried to think of all the reasons why she's been so sure he had no interest in her whatsoever. "You treat me like I'm your stupid little sister."

"You fucking friend-zoned me," he whispered. "So that was the only way I could touch you."

"But you never even tried?"

"You know I fucking did." His voice was dark as he said that, and he looked away, his jaw tightening in shame. They'd never talked about that drunken night, and Emily had started to think that maybe he didn't even remember.

"That was different," she breathed, her heart racing in her chest.

"Why? Because I was a fucking asshole and I tried to corner you?"

"No, Doyle. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes I did. I let myself get so fucking drunk that I couldn't hold back anymore. And I held you down and made you tell me shit that you didn't want to fucking share. And it was wrong, but it made me so fucking hot I can't stop thinking about it."

"Doyle… we were drunk."

"Because I'm a fucking coward. Because when I'm sober I'm too fucking afraid that you'll leave."

"You really think that I care so little about you?"

"Yes… I dunno. You push me away every fucking chance you get."

"I don't understand why you think that. It nearly killed me when you went off into the forest on your own."

Doyle frowned, and shook his head. "We speak the same language, but you're like a fucking alien creature. It's like you're cold but you're not, and I don't fucking understand."

"I'm sorry. I'm just…"

"British."

"Well, yes. It's not my fault that you have no concept of how I feel."

"It isn't?"

"I mean, we sleep spooned half naked together, for god's sake."

"We did. And now we don't."

Emily sighed. "Look, that night hurt. I didn't… I didn't want to be the woman you only wanted when you were drunk, or because there was no one else there."

"Jesus," Doyle whispered, stepping closer until she could feel his body heat. "Is that what you really think, that I only want you because I'm fucking desperate?"

She looked away, too afraid to finally see the truth confirmed in his eyes, but he pushed in even closer and lifted her chin until she had to look at him again.

"Do you want me to show you how you really make me fucking feel, baby?" His voice was husky and honeyed again, and he grabbed her by the hands and pushed until her shoulders hit the wall. He slid their hands upwards until he held them trapped on either side of her head. Emily's heart raced again, her body buzzing with tension and burning heat as Doyle leaned his full body against hers.

He was warm and heavy and muscled against her, and Emily whined as she felt the thick outline of his hard cock press against her lower belly. Her head fell back in submission, her body screaming for more, and Doyle leaned in to rake his sharp teeth and stroke his soft lips against her throat. His hips jerked against hers, grinding into her, and her whine turned into a sharp cry as Doyle lifted his head to look at her.

"Do you see what you fucking do to me, Em?" he growled as he let his hips circle into hers. "I think about putting my hands on you every second of every fucking day. I want to fuck you until you lose your god-damned mind, and that wouldn't change even if we had the whole fucking world around us."

"God, Doyle!" Emily whimpered, her body arching against his and she had no control over it. He nuzzled her ear, then scraped the stubble of his beard against her cheek as he edged his mouth a hair away from hers.

"If you don't want this, then tell me to stop," he murmured. "Don't just let me do it to make me fucking feel better. Okay?"

Emily frowned, and felt fresh tears fall down her cheeks. He flinched, released her hands and stepped back, but she grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him back. "Don't go."

"What do you want, Emily? Do you want me to back off?"

"No."

"Then what? Do you want this or not, because I have no fucking idea."

"I just, I've never done this with someone that looks anything like you before."

"What does that even mean?"

"I mean," she replied hurriedly as she spotted the pain in Doyle's eyes. "I mean, look at you. I've only ever been with sensible men with office jobs and bodies like forty year old dads, and you're… you're definitely not that. Nobody like you has ever looked twice at me."

Doyle frowned, then the corners of his mouth turned up into a tiny grin. "You wanna know why? Because grunts are fucking stupid, and we like to pick the easy prey. I took one look at you at District One and I knew that the swagger wouldn't have worked on you. And that terrified me because that's all I fucking had. So no, I wouldn't have let you see me look twice at you. Didn't stop me from watching you through my scope at night, though."

Emily's jaw dropped, and she blushed furiously as she thought about the things he might have seen. "Could you, I mean… Did you watch me when I was in the bloody bathroom?"

"No, course not," he replied, and Emily sighed in relief until he added the rest of his sentence. "You always closed the fucking door."

"You're such a dickhead," she said affectionately, and Doyle smiled back at her.

"Okay," he admitted. "Maybe I didn't explain that as well as I could have. But the point I was trying to make-"

"With your story about how you tried and failed to perv on me in my bathroom through the night vision scope on your sniper rifle?"

"Yes, with that story. My point was supposed to be that we had people all around us back then. And I still watched you, even when there were other people to choose from who might have given me the time of day."

"I think that's maybe the sweetest, creepy thing that anyone has ever said to me."

Doyle smiled a little as he lifted his hand and stroked the pads of his fingers over her cheek. "You're fucking beautiful, Emily."

"Don't be silly," she chided, and he shook his head.

"You are. I don't know how you don't see that. And you saved me from fucking burning to death and from being chewed up by a dog in one day. You've survived the end of the fucking world, twice, with no help and no training. You're a fucking badass, baby. I mean, you can't fucking shoot straight, but you gotta let me have something I'm better at."

Emily blushed and rolled her eyes as she lifted her hand to stroke it against Doyle's cheek. "I'm sure you already know that relationships that start in high stress situations don't tend to end well?"

Doyle wrapped his arms around Emily's back and pulled her in tight, slid his hands into her hair and kissed her forehead. "I don't fucking care."

She snuggled closer and wiped away her tears into the fabric of Doyle's shirt.

"How did this get so fucked up, Em?"

"No idea. We must be pretty stupid."

Doyle loosened his grip around Emily's back and tilted her chin backwards until she looked at him. He stroked his lips against hers, gently, as if he was expecting her to pull away again. Emily trembled, heat flushing her body as she felt him lean back into her. She eased her hands into his hair and urged him against her more firmly, and Doyle moaned into her mouth as he slid his hands onto her backside and pulled her hips against his.

"You sure you want this?" he asked as he came up for air, and Emily smiled a little. They'd made such a mess of trying to understand each other's words and actions up until now, and it was sweet that he wanted to be absolutely sure. But how could she be certain that he'd believe her?

She felt her cheeks burning as she spoke, but for the first time in her life, she didn't chicken out. Emily took Doyle's hand in hers and slid it against the button of her jeans. "Why don't you see for yourself?"

His eyes were suddenly intense as he stared at her. He tangled his right hand in her hair to keep her eyes level with his as he unfastened her pants with his dominant hand and slid inside. She felt his strong fingers whisper against the soaking material of her underwear, and Doyle groaned, his eyelids fluttering in pleasure. He shoved the material out of the way and rubbed a slow, delicate finger from the bottom of her opening to the tip of her clit, and back down.

Emily shuddered, fire burning through her veins and a mewl escaping her mouth as her back arched and hips bucked to urge him closer. Doyle gave her what she needed, twisted his hand so that he could rock the calloused ball of his thumb over her clit while his fingers stroked deeper. He eased his middle finger just inside her opening and she felt herself clamp down on him hard.

"Fuck, Emily," he growled, keening as he felt her muscles fluttering against him. He stayed still for a moment, trembling, and then slid his hand back out of her pants. His fingers glistened with her juices as he held them to his face and sucked them clean. Her cheeks burned, but suddenly he pulled her away from the wall and pushed her down onto the bed, dragging her jeans and thoroughly ruined underwear down her legs and onto the floor.

Doyle kneeled on the floor at the foot of the bed and grabbed Emily by the hips, dragging her closer until her arse was almost at the edge. He slid his palms to her thighs and spread them wide, and she tried to wiggle away in panic.

"Oh god, Doyle, I really need a wash if you're planning on doing that!" she squeaked, and he hooked his arms under her legs and held tight.

"You're going nowhere, mama," he murmured into her thighs, and Emily shuddered as she felt his warm breath tickle her wet flesh. He dipped his head lower, pressed the heat of his tongue against the bottom of her quivering hole and slid upwards all the way to her clit in one firm, broad lick. He repeated the movement again, and again, and if the enthusiasm of his tongue wasn't quite enough to dispel her fear and awkwardness, his long, keening groan of satisfaction certainly did the trick.

Emily slumped back onto the bed, her thighs relaxing as Doyle snuggled even closer, letting his nose and chin nuzzle into her flesh as he circled the tip of his tongue around and then into her hole. She whined, her cunt filling with rolling waves of pleasure as the intimacy of what he was doing took her breath away. He slid his mouth up to her clit and grazed it between his teeth, then fastened his lips over it and started to suck in a strong, pulsing rhythm that had her whimpering and writhing desperately.

"Oh shit, Doyle!" she whined, trying to wiggle free again as the heat of his tongue became overwhelming. He held on tight with one arm, and stroked his left hand up her thigh and onto her soaking flesh. He edged the tip of his middle finger around her opening, teasing, until she keened and clutched at the bedsheets in frustration.

"What?" he asked innocently as he came up for air. His mouth glistened and his eyes were wicked as she stared down at him with a glare that could kill small children. "Something you need, mama?" He eased his finger almost inside her, and then pulled back again, and Emily's hips bucked against the immovable strength of his bicep holding her down. He dipped his head again, kissed and licked over her clit as he repeated the same frustrating wiggle of his evil finger.

"Please!" she begged, and she felt the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as he slowly slid deeper inside her. She moaned, her muscles grabbing onto him and squeezing as her body drowned in heat. Doyle went back to sucking on her clit as he twisted his finger and stroked against her inner wall, rocking deeper inside her.

"Come on, baby," he whispered between licks and sucks of his mercilessly talented mouth. "Let go and come on my fucking face." He slid a second finger inside her and stretched them gently, fucked inside her harder, and Emily let out an almost pained-sounding whine as she felt her cunt muscles spasm and quiver.

Doyle held her down as she came, and wouldn't move his fingers or his mouth despite Emily's desperate hands clawing at his head. For a moment it was too much, the sensation beyond agonising as she whimpered and shuddered, and then suddenly she was flying, her body burning in pleasure as she was overcome with waves of heat and glorious, slick friction. Her clawing hands were grinding Doyle's mouth into her clit so hard it must have hurt, but he only moaned in satisfaction at her heated cries.

When the tension finally melted from her body, Doyle gently pulled his fingers free and stroked them over the soft fuzz of her pubic hair. He released her thigh from the death grip of his arm and leaned forward, nuzzling his cheek into her abdomen. His stubble burned her skin, but she liked it. Her hands were still in his hair, and she rubbed her fingers against his scalp.

"You okay?"

"Mmm," she replied. "I think I'm broken."

He chuckled softly, and his breath tickled her belly. "I like hearing you lose your shit."

"Mmm?"

He lifted his head to look at her, a devilish grin on his face as he stood up and climbed onto the bed between her legs. "But there's something else I'm gonna love," he whispered, settling his weight over her so that he could plant aching kisses along her throat.

"What's that?" Emily asked, her voice wavering as her breathing became unsteady.

Doyle looked up and met her eyes as he spoke again, and his words made her already aching cunt flutter in embarrassment and filthy anticipation. "Watching you."

He kissed her, sliding his tongue inside her mouth and stroking gently. She could taste herself on his lips and it filled her with guilty pleasure. Emily's hands moved to Doyle's shoulders and were met with the unbearable obstacle of his shirt.

"How do you still have all your clothes on?" she asked, and he put on a pouting face that made him look adorable.

"Because you're cruel and neglectful," he replied, and she laughed as he sat up and helped her peel off his shirt and then kick off his pants. Emily stared, slid her hands to his broad shoulders and then down over the hard, sculpted veiny muscle of his arms.

"Shit, Doyle," she whispered as her fingers worshipped over his body. She was a little amazed to realise that her normally overactive imagination still hadn't done him justice, and he chuckled as he reached for her t-shirt and tugged it over her head. Then his fingers fiddled with her bra and made short work of that, too.

Emily's hands moved shyly at first, still not quite able to shake her disbelief that a man with a body as unbelievable as Doyle's would actually want her. But he moaned deep in his throat as she touched him, his beautifully expressive eyes filled with pleasure, and then even her biggest fears were fading into the background.

He slid his hands up her ribs until he cupped her breasts, bent down and captured a nipple between his teeth then mercilessly lashed at it with the tip of his tongue. Emily keened, then whimpered as he fastened his mouth over her and started to suck. She arched her back and slid her hands into his hair, pulling him closer as he covered her other nipple with his hand and rolled it against his warm palm.

Emily stroked along Doyle's back, feeling the muscles bunch and roll as he circled his hips against hers. He was hot and hard, even through his underwear, and she cursed herself for not getting rid of them when they kicked off his pants.

She pulled him away from her breast and back up to kiss her, and slid her hands to his chest, down over his happy trail and into the waistband of his boxers. She curled her fingers around his shaft and squeezed gently, and Doyle tensed, his hips bucking into her as he closed his eyes and moaned into her neck.

"Fuck, Em," he swore as he lifted his head to look at her again. She pulled her hand away for a moment to lick it, and then stroked back over him, pumping slowly with her slick, wet fist. His eyes fluttered and he moaned, writhing against her as she brushed her thumb over the head of his dick. He grabbed her hand and held her still, buried his head against her ear as he whispered "I can't… You're fucking killing me."

Emily smiled. She slid her other hand along the crack of Doyle's ass until her finger danced against his perineum, and he whined in pleasure. "Bit like what you were doing to me before, then? Is it my turn now?"

He looked at her, eyes following her tongue as she opened her mouth and licked across her top lip. She felt his cock pulse in her hand, and Doyle let out a groan as he stroked his fingers against her tongue, pushed between her lips and let her take them into her mouth. She sucked hungrily, and he slid his fingers in deeper, staring at her with an expression of longing that made her tremble.

Doyle pulled his fingers free and smeared Emily's saliva over her bottom lip, then leaned down to capture her mouth in a hungry kiss. He let go of her hand and cupped her face in both of his, his tongue stealing her breath as she slid her fingers down to stroke over his balls, then back onto his shaft.

He grabbed her hands and pinned them above her head, his cock suddenly grinding against her clit as he keened in pleasure and rocked into her. Emily shuddered, heat flooding her as her body craved even more. She wasn't sure how much Doyle remembered of that drunken conversation that had made him so ashamed earlier, whether he knew how he was affecting her or if he just wanted to keep her still, but the feeling of being held down with his weight on top of her was overwhelmingly hot.

"No." He finally answered her earlier question as he came up for air, and Emily looked up at him, questioning and breathless. "I want to watch you come first."

His grip on her wrists was still unbreakable even one-handed, and Emily wriggled urgently as she felt Doyle slide his hand down between her bodies and onto the slick, wet flesh of her slit. She whimpered, his fingers dragging waves of heated pleasure straight to her core, and then he was pushing them inside her, and she couldn't stand another second more.

"Doyle!" she moaned, desperately trying to escape from the torturous pleasure that he was inflicting upon her. "Please!"

"What is it, mama?" he whispered into her ear, trailing kisses along her throat until his mouth reached her ear again. "Tell me what you want." He twisted his fingers inside her and rocked against her deeper, his thumb dragging over her clit, rough, but with enough lubrication to make the walls of her cunt tighten and flutter with want. "Tell me what you fucking need."

"Please!" she whimpered, her body writhing against him. "Please, just fuck me!"

"That what you want, baby?" he asked as he thrust his fingers deeper inside her until her voice cracked with emotion. "D'you want my cock balls deep inside that beautiful little pink cunt? Huh? Want me to fuck you until you're screaming? Until you lose your fucking mind?"

"Yes!" she begged, too desperate to even care that her face was burning at the things that Doyle was saying. "Please. Please just… I can't. I can't take this anymore."

Doyle slowly slid his fingers free of Emily's body and then lifted them to her face. "Taste that beautiful cunt, baby," he growled, and forced his fingers between her lips. She obeyed, sucking him clean as he stared at her with eyes that were completely wild.

He finally shoved his boxers off his legs and Emily mewled in anticipation as he bumped the head of his cock against her opening. He grabbed her hip to hold her still and pushed, staring into her eyes as he slowly sank his thick, veiny shaft inside her. She arched, hips trembling as her body bucked and screamed for more.

"Fuck," he whispered, thrusting as deep as he could as he leaned down to fuck his tongue between Emily's panting lips. He let go of her hip and she raised her legs and tightened them around his waist, squeezing desperately. He pulled back and rocked into her, slow and hard and deep, and Emily moaned low in her throat.

"Don't stop!" she begged, and Doyle shoved his hand between their bodies again to rub that rough thumb back over her soaking wet clit. She cried out, absolutely wrecked with pleasure, and his eyes fluttered closed as she pulsed around his cock.

"I'm not gonna stop," he replied, breathless as he fucked her faster. "I'm never gonna fucking stop."

His words pushed her back over the edge and Emily whined as she came, her body shuddering as waves of heat stole her breath and her legs went limp and her toes curled in mindless desperation. Doyle slid his hand to her face and whispered to her to open her eyes and look at him, and her cheeks burned as she did as he asked. She would never have done it for anybody else, but this was Doyle and she would do anything to make him happy.

"Jesus, Em," he groaned, his eyes full of emotion and pleasure as he watched her. "You're so fucking beautiful. And I gotta come."

Emily wriggled her arms and he let her go, and she sank one hand into the thick, silky gorgeousness of his hair and slid her other arm around his back, pulling tight. He braced both his arms on the mattress to steady his weight over her as he pounded into her, the muscles of his magnificent body rippling with his powerful thrusts.

"Is this okay?" he asked, and Emily hugged him tighter with her thighs as she locked her legs around his back again.

"God yes!" she replied, desperately trying to pull him closer." Don't stop. I want to feel you come inside me."

His eyes rolled at that, his body trembling as he moaned in pleasure and the rhythm of his thrusts faltered. He writhed, and let out an animalistic grunt as she felt his come pulse hot inside her. His eyes were still on hers but his pupils were unfocused as he let his body slide until his weight pressed her down into the mattress.

Emily bit her lip, her throat choking up with emotion at the sight of Doyle coming completely undone inside her. He came to his senses and moaned into her mouth as he lowered his head and kissed her thoroughly.

"We're never moving from this fucking bed again," he murmured, and Emily smiled against his mouth. She would give anything for that to be possible.


End file.
